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Ghost Hunger

Sometimes when I wipe the bowl with my bread

when I scramble one egg, two eggs, with milk

when I stir the kasha until it’s thick

when I sit at the table and bow my head

I think of how my father ate

how he bowed his head—though he didn’t pray

at least not in the usual way of grace

but always that posture over his plate

of supplication, gratitude—

the hungry shoulders of the boy

who’d stuffed his mouth with pulled grass once

who never got over that there was enough

Sometimes I wipe the bowl with my bread

Sometimes I feed his ghost this prayer

from CarpathiaFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2009
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Cecilia Woloch Poems

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